


C'est ici l'empire de la Mort

by My-Conversation (TheDarkFangirl)



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Gore, M/M, Mild torture, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 22:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkFangirl/pseuds/My-Conversation
Summary: Merry Christmas, rip1009 ❤Revenge, insanity and violin.





	C'est ici l'empire de la Mort

“C'est ici l'empire de la Mort.”

Nicolas did not realize he was being taken from the cell of a room he was residing in until he felt the air change and a light from a freshly-lit torch illuminated his face. It was not something that gave him a startle anymore, walking or talking without having any memory of it. The days blended together.  


He heard a voice but paid no heed to it. They never answered when he did, they spoke amongst themselves and did no echo against the walls.

His arm became lighter when a hand he wasn’t aware of let it out of its grasp.

_Ossements du Cimetère de Innocents déposés en Avril 1787_

They came to a dead end.

The walls were covered in old bones and skulls, some looking freshly dug out of the ground.

“Armand…”  
A dark-haired vampire was chained to the opposite wall by numerous shackles with links heavy enough to weigh a man down on their own. His wrists were crossed, tied together by rusty strings that stretched between his fingers in separate lines. There was dried blood on his hands, presumably from attempts to move them.

He looked up at Nicolas, eyes sunken into their sockets.

He was starving.

A metallic clasp broke the silence of the catacombs and Nicolas’ hips were suddenly bearing more weight. A matching iron shackle, digging into his hipbones. His eyes followed the attached chain up to the point where it disappeared under the stone wall.

“Here.” Armand’s soft voice came from behind, sounding so real that Nicolas turned his head in its direction.

The reflection of fire flickered in the glossy surface of his Stradivarius violin, the bow sitting on top of it.

Armand watched Nicolas reach out for his precious instrument, hands trembling up to the moment his fingertips touched it. For a moment, he looked at it as if he did not recognize it.

“Play for Santino. He will listen.”

Armand smiled and turned around, the source of light following him and leaving the space in darkness. Someone was pushing a heavy stone, making the gravel crack underneath. It fell in place just in time to subdue a raw cry coming from inside.

Armand waited, leaning against the stone and waiting for the first wail of the violin.

Nicolas was his favourite. He loved him for the pain he brought to Lestat, for his musical genius, for his beauty. For the fierce arguments they would often have over scripts.  
For his twisted passion.

He heard the first tone drawn from the violin.

His own happiness was sickening him. Still, he left with a hint of smile on his lips.

\----------

‘ _Concerto nights_ ’, Armand called them.  
He would come to the catacombs and listen to the performances.

The night and hour did not matter – Nicolas would always play. He never stopped. His music frustrated him. The walls in the catacombs muted it, shortening the notes and murdering the melodies.  


His improvisations were dark, painful and delving into insanity so intensely even Armand often had to leave, no matter the amount of pleasure it gave him to watch Santino desperately try and lift his weakened hands to his ears. No matter the delight he felt from seeing him try to break the strings apart too, only managing to dig them deeper into his flesh.

He never seemed present anymore. Back in the theatre, he had days of clarity when he would speak and write. On most days, he would scream for his violin and break his bones against the walls.  
It was on one of the days he was almost completely catatonic that Armand brought him into the catacombs.  


There were no days of clarity now, no days of stillness.

Only the endless and sometimes repetitive attempts at making his music sound the way he wanted, and loud enough to hear it over the inhumane screeches coming from the darkness around him.

\----------

It’s been almost three weeks since Armand had been to a Concert night. The theatre was busy rehearsing their most demanding play yet, one he wrote a fortnight ago with one of Nicolas’ compositions still fresh in his memory.  


He spent most his nights watching the stage, directing and pestering the actors to bring them as close to his vision as possible.

He has been very satisfied with himself lately.

\----------

“Good evening, gentlemen.”  
_The violin could probably be heard in the streets above if the night was quiet enough._  


He hung the torch on the wall, taking in the sight around him.  
Santino was hunched over on his knees, motionless.

Armand took steps towards the vampire for the first time since chaining him and kneeled next to his head, watching him curiously.

His skin was dried out, he could tell when he ran his finger along the side of his face. It brought Santino to life and Armand had to pull his hand back quickly to avoid his teeth. Santino’s head fell back on the ground and Armand let out a quiet chuckle.  


“Stop him, stop him, stop him...” Santino’s voice was hoarse as it started repeating the familiar and only mantra he seemed to know by now, his bloodied fingers twitching.  
Disgust and gratification were so strong in Armand he was barely able to feel anything else.

“No.” He said simply.  
He took a deep breath and straightened his posture, looking down on Santino before he rose to his feet. The sounds coming from the vampire on the ground got more frantic when the only person who could stop what was happening to him started to walk away.

Drunk on power. Blood from the early night hunt was pulsing hot in Armand’s veins as he walked up to Nicolas, the one whose hands and melodies gave him this spectacle.  
“Nicolas… My Divine Violinist.” He whispered.

He forced himself into his thoughts enough to persuade Nicolas into giving his violin away and took his hands into his, examining them.  


His fingers were played to the bone, white spots in the mess of blood. He took one of them into his mouth, running his tongue around it as he looked up at Nicolas. His eyes kept turning to the violin, but he watched Armand with intent of a person who was not quite in reality, but not completely gone either.

Armand cleaned all of his fingers one by one, getting the taste of his blood on his tongue. It was still just as bitter as Nicolas himself, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the familiar taste that was making him hard or his own power trip.  
Santino let out a throaty cough at the smell of blood and Armand felt a surge of arousal go through him that made him push Nicolas against the wall, stand on his tip toes and kiss him hard, nails digging into his shoulders.

A hum escaped Nicolas’ throat before he met Armand’s lips with equal force, as if remembering something long forgotten.

“I knew I heard passion in your music.” Armand smirked. This was not the first time he had thought of what they were doing now. He had no shame in his needs. He remembered sex well. He tore the ragged shirt off of Nicolas and dragged his nails down his body, leaving red, bloody marks.

“Lest-“

“ _Armand._ ” He said firmly, gripping Nicolas’ chin and making him look into his eyes. He was in and out of madness. He was going to bring him into the present.

“Armand.” Nicolas was breathless. Armand wondered if he was even aware that he was getting hard against him when he sank his teeth into his chest, taking in the darkness that both fuelled and clouded his mind. “Armand.” Nicolas repeated, pushing him away from his skin.

“There you go.” Armand knew the look in his eyes. Clarity and lust.  
He pushed Nicolas down to his knees and let himself be pulled there as well, legs on either side of his hips, lips meeting in a feverish kiss once again.

Nicolas reveled in pain. He moaned in rising pleasure when Armand scratched his skin or bit into his flesh.  


Armand reveled in attention. He wanted it continuously. Having his hair pulled, fingers with nails sunk into his hip while he got what he wanted from the writhing body underneath him.  
He also had Santino’s attention. He knew it because he heard his dry, sharply drawn, thirsty breaths.

A shaky moan left his lips when he rocked his hips against Nicolas’, his hard cock brushing against his through the fabric.  


He was never a patient one.

The iron shackle wouldn’t go past Nicolas’ hipbones and left them with bloody bruises, ones Armand sunk his teeth into and made Nicolas cry out in more pain than pleasure for the first time.  
He chuckled against his skin and palmed his groin, effectively making the cry end out in a pleased whine. There were reasons why Nicolas was his favourite.

The first time Armand sank on his cock he wrapped his arms around Nicolas’ neck tightly and moaned into his ear, the latter already bringing his hips up to thrust into him.

Nicolas was a delight to fuck.

He scratched Armand’s back bloody as he rode him, turning his head slightly to make eye-contact with Santino.  
Armand looked straight at him as he fucked himself on Nicolas’s cock, bringing his fingers to his mouth and biting two of them enough to have blood trickle down his hand. He then dragged his tongue from the middle of his forearm up to the tips of his fingers again, licking it clean.  


Santino’s eyes were desperate, and Armand’s smile was bloody.

He kissed Nicolas after swallowing the last drop of his own blood, both of their movements gaining on speed as they brought each other close.

It was hearing Santino muster his hoarse voice and curse him to Hell that made him come.

His bloody cum shot all over Nicolas’ stomach and he rode him on into his own climax, not stopping when it came because Nicolas loved the painful sensitivity of his own cock after he came.  
Momentarily exhausted, he let his head fall to Nicolas’ shoulder and turned it to look at the other side of the small place, taunting smile on his lips. 

“Only Children of Satan go to Hell.” He said, licking at a trickle of blood coming from one of the earlier bites.

He made sure Nicolas had all he needed before giving him his violin back.

\----------

In the end, maybe Armand was the most insane of them all.  
More than the deluded coven master, more than the maniacal violinist.

The _Concerto nights_ were the most distorted, perverse and intense performances he had ever created, no matter that the only audience were the actors themselves. He loved them, loved his Nicolas, loved Santino in his position. They became the core of his existence, an obsession that filled his existence and simultaneously dragged him into darkness. Sometimes he became too drunk on Nicolas’ blood or looked at Santino and realized what he was doing.

He didn’t know whether he had made a mistake one of the nights or whether something deep inside him needed to get rid of them before he went mad.  


Maybe Nicolas got to drink some of his own blood without him noticing due to being lost in pleasure. Maybe he had underestimated Santino’s survival instinct.

Maybe the last time he came, he cried out in agony and despair instead of pleasure and let Nicolas sink his teeth into his neck on his own.  
He did not give it a single thought the night he came to find those who were sent to bring dinner to Nicolas drained on the gravel ground and both Nicolas and Santino gone.

He left the catacombs open and had Eleni send a letter to Lestat about Nicolas’ suicide.

He couldn’t find the violin.


End file.
